


a few written signs

by svartalfheimr



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-26 11:15:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30105120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/svartalfheimr/pseuds/svartalfheimr
Summary: Tumblr prompt fills for various pairings or a single character. Each chapter title contains the character/pairing, prompt and rating.
Relationships: Alpha-17 & ARC-77 | Fordo, Alpha-17/CC-1010 | Fox, CT-7567 | Rex/Anakin Skywalker, Darth Maul/CT-7567 | Rex, Dogma/Darth Maul, Dooku | Darth Tyranus/Hardcase, Obi-Wan Kenobi/CT-7567 | Rex, implied CC-5052 | Bly/Aayla Secura
Comments: 9
Kudos: 27





	1. Dogma/Maul, "Throne" (T)

**Author's Note:**

> I still have a few in my askbox but I am posting the ones done here because these prompts tend to grow legs on their own, I'm suddenly writing multiple long wips and one-shots and ಥnಥ hopefully these ones will stay short that way,,,,,,,,unlike the ones that already became actual one-shots,,,,,,,,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **menac-ika asked:** Dogma/Maul with “throne” 👀😌
> 
> thank you echo <3

The room was distasteful, a shrine to the duchess and her era of weaklings; Maul made quick work of it. He may have placed a pawn in his stead but he will not tolerate his throne to be tainted by her presence. The stooge knows better than to sit on Maul’s rightful place—everyone does. He will not hesitate to make… _quick work_ of anyone who does not.

Yet here Maul stands, in front of his throne, and it is not free.

“Is the room to your taste?” he asks with a swipe of his hand and a prim smile. “Would you like for me to ask for new curtains? A statue in your honor, perhaps?”

His soldier frowns but his mouth twitches slightly. Maul walks to him slowly, crossing his hands behind his back, placing himself in front of him at arm’s reach.

“Do you like it?” he asks without theatricality, low enough to be only heard by him. He may not say it plainly but Maul _does_ want to know if his soldier finds the room to his taste. There is no doubt in his mind that he will get the required changes should it not be the case.

“It’s a bit dark,” his soldier says with serious consideration, eyes examining every surface intently. When his gaze settles on him, Maul finds it difficult not to straighten his posture. “But it suits you.”

He has become more confident—and with self-assurance comes a strong personality that has Maul feeling proud of himself; capturing the clone in a shuttle on its way to his death may not have offered him the information he desired but it certainly gave him something he did not expect.

“I like it,” Dogma says with conviction. Maul smiles, watching him intently. When their eyes meet, he averts his gaze. His soldier must become whole before Maul can even think about mentioning his interest.

“I am glad,” he says and finds that it is true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is actually connected to [this one-shot](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29100924) and,,,,,I am writing two follow ups,,,,,,,,


	2. Hardcase/Count Dooku, T

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **anonymous asked:** HardCount - Cry -- MandalorianBrainWeasel
> 
> tw: offscreen torture

He is tougher to break than expected. The Count watches him with disdain, annoyed rather than irritated. He was hoping this would reveal itself to be resolved easily. He does not have time to waste with a clone that does not submit to his will.

“Stop resisting,” he says calmly. He frowns when his words seem to be ignored. “You will break. It is only a matter of time.”

His only answer is laughter. The clones laughs, and laughs, and laughs—the hysterical notes are shrilling, echoing and unnerving, and the wheeze morphs into a fit of wet coughs that makes the Count grimace in disgust. He places the hilt of his lightsaber under the clone’s chin and tilts his face up. A swollen eye—and a purplish mark blooming above it. How unfortunate.

The grin, feral and provocative, is what makes his eyes narrow.

“There are other ways to break me,” the clone rasps, voice almost gone but the taunt is clear. “Couldn’t have gone for a funnier alternative? We could’ve had a good time.”

The Count hums. He signals to the med droid to come forth.

“Clean him,” he says. “We will find other methods.”

“Already giving up?” the clone spits. The Count’s eyes slide down to him—he is still wearing that rebellious grin. “Come on, sir. I know you can do better. ‘thought you’d make this night unforgettable.”

The Count walks away. “Make him talk,” he says before he exits the room.

He comes back two hours later. The clone is shaking, lips trembling with silent words. “Stop resisting,” he tells him calmly, as he did every time he came back to his cell. “You will break. It is only a matter of time.”

The clone sobs. His eyes swell with tears he cannot stop but his rebellious grin is still in place.

Hardcase laughs. “Stop flirting and get to it, then,” he whispers with a tired chuckle.


	3. Maul/Rex, [Quote from AotC], T

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **futuristicsharknut asked:** Maulrex, "Compassion, which I would define as unconditional love, is essential to a Jedi's life. So you might say, that we are encouraged to love."

It is… strange to be once again outside. He inhales sharply but quietly, trying not to attract attention to what he does. The air smells wet and heavy; when he opens his mouth, he can almost taste the grass under his feet. He crouches to touch it with his fingertips, marvelled by its texture. He forgot how it felt to touch something living.

When he looks behind him, he sees Rex standing, a quiet vigil. His smile is in his eyes rather than his mouth. He is beautiful under the loving sun of Naboo. Maul gazes down, staring at his waist. There lies his reminder—why he must remember what he wants is not allowed and never will be.

He has seen this man every day for the last three years. He has talked with him every day for the last three years. He has come to love him in these last three years.

Maul stands up. Rex comes closer, walking until he can stand besides him.

“Compassion, which I would define as unconditional love, is essential to a Jedi’s life,” Rex whispers, eyes staring straight ahead above the lake. He clears his throat then takes a quick, almost silent breath that he holds for three seconds. Maul tilts his head slightly to the side to look at him exhale calmly. “So you might say, that we are encouraged to love.”

Maul averts his gaze. He stares at the lake before them, knowing he may never be able to see it again. He cannot look away. If he does, he will look at Rex’s lightsaber, the weapon of an enemy, his jailer, and he does not want to see it. He does not want to remember why he knows him; he does not want to remember the first day he met him—a clone revealed to be Force Sensitive, pulled away from the battlefield from fear of having him Fall, made to take care of the Sith the Jedi Order has been keeping as a caged pet for years.

“Attachment is forbidden,” Maul reminds him. He cannot make himself add bitterness to his words. As much as he wants him, he does not want to be the reason for Rex to lose everything.

“Love isn’t,” the Jedi says quietly. Maul stays silent. There is nothing he can say that will make them happy. Lying would only hurt.

But when he feels Rex’s finger graze his own, Maul does not try to stop him.


	4. Anakin/Rex, Scar, T

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **jasondont asked:** hello!!! rexakin annndddd scar

He thought the news would be liberating.

He is old and tired and still angry. He laughs now, more freely than ever, and he indulges in softness and never shies away from sharing emotions. Rex is, for lack of a better word, freer than ever. 

The children are so big now. She is quiet in her mourning but Rex can still sense it; her smile is wide and beautiful but her eyes hide a certain sadness that feels like it will never really leave her—just like her mother. It’s her joy, though. It’s contained in a way Rex knows intimately—it is so big and intense and searing and just overwhelming that she has had to hide it or control it for her entire life. He has no doubt she feels joy as intensely as she does anger, hurt or love. She feels everything more than anyone else.

She is so, so similar to her father it hurts to watch her. It hurts even more to know he will never be able to tell her that—because even if she doesn’t know him well, Rex loves her with his entire heart and doesn’t want to hurt her if he can avoid it.

She is not his daughter and she never will be—but she and her brother are all he has left of their father. They’re all that’s left of his Jedi.

The celebrations are moments of joy and happiness. Rex looks at the forest around them and decides to take a walk, to have a moment to himself. His knees protest, already tired and exhausted, begging him to let them rest after the day they’ve had, full of crouching and running and jumping and blasting. Hera watches him go but she doesn’t try to stop him.

Rex doesn’t find it surprising that her brother is away from the festivities. He takes a deep breath, wills his heart to leave him alone for once, or at least to keep functioning until he’s said what he needs to. He approaches him silently, knowing that, just like his father, he will never be startled.

“Everything alright, sir?” Rex asks and the familiarity is so comforting and hurting he doesn’t know what to do with it.

The kid turns his head to him, face set in this mask of fake serenity that he knows so well. At least, on him it doesn’t look too much like a mask. He is much more at peace than his father ever was.

“It was a long day,” the kid says with a smile so tired and familiar it breaks Rex’s heart.

_I knew your father,_ he wants to say. _He was my Jedi._ There are so many things he wants to tell him, so many stories he has to share, so many memories he wants to pass on so they never die. So many lost opportunities, so many times where he’d thought _this is it, I should tell him,_ so many moments where he’d thought _after the war, when things get better,_ so many instants where he’d thought _why did I never tell him when I still could._ But today the news of his death, on the same day Rex learned he was still alive, has just made him too raw. He touches his chest as if he could feel the invisible scar and soothe it. The problem with losing someone you love is that the wound is never physical. There’s no way to treat it like you would something else.

The kid has his mother’s smile.

“Yeah,” Rex mutters with a tired twitch of his mouth. “It was a long day.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry


	5. Alpha/Fox, "You're lucky no one caught you cheating", M

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **anelegantoffense asked:** tumblr pls do the thing >:V I SAY AGAIN how about Alpha/Fox + "You're lucky no one caught you cheating"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: swearing, suggestive themes but nothing graphic because I chickened out ಥ.ಥ

“You’re lucky no one caught you cheating,” Fox mutters wryly; the words are barely discernible but his helmet is biting his nape.

Alpha feels the telltale electric snap of cuffs around his wrist and huffs. He’s too drunk to protest or find a quip to piss him off. He just sniffs and lets himself be pushed forward. Once he’s outside, he squints. Morning, already? Maybe not. It’s not like they can see the sky from that down below. The other patrons throw vicious looks his way. He’s the only one who didn’t get ruffled up by the boys in white. All a bunch of karking morons they are—but apparently they got enough brains to see he would break each of them in half like twigs.

They’re a disgrace, is what they are. All barely trained, shaking fingers holding big blasters that they don’t even know how to clean. Whoever thought emptying the tubes on Kamino to bring in natborns would be better is an imbecile. They’ll never get as good as his brothers are. He gives one a feral smile with teeth and feels fierce joy when he sees them stiffen in the exact way all shelled up shinies do when they get scared.

“Stop that,” Fox snaps in a growl that makes Alpha scowl. If he thinks he’s going to let him talk t—

Of course the bastard stuns him.

Alpha wakes up with a jolt and a mean headache. He grunts, closing his eyes against the assault of brightness because someone thought bringing the sun inside was a good idea. “Can’t you karking dim the lights in here,” he growls. “I can’t see a thing.”

“I used to respect you,” Fox mutters. “I looked up to you—we all did.” He can hear him shake his helmet. Alpha doesn’t need to see the disgust on his face to know. “Look at you now.”

“Who do you think you’re talking to,” he growls, opening his eyes to see the flinch. He smirks when Fox tries to suppress it but fails halfway. “Why don’t you show me your pretty face, hm? Take off that bucket for a little while?”

“Go to hell, Alpha.”

“Oh? You remember me now?” He chuckles low in his chest. “You remember when you weren’t an akk dog wagging his tails for pricks in fancy suits?” He spits. Fox’s white helmet shakes minutely. He takes a step forward and places his hand on each armrest, creating a little prison for Alpha to laugh at.

“Remember when you used to be someone?” Fox whispers. His helmet grazes Alpha’s cheek and he says, “Do you remember how it felt like? Do you remember how docile I was for you?”

Alpha grins. “Do you,” he rumbles against his helmet.

Fox flinches away.

“You could still get down on your knees, pretty boy,” he purrs, spreading his legs lazily, shaking his shoulders to relieve some of the stiffness building from having his arms tied to the back of his bolt down chair. “I won’t tell if you won’t tell.”

Fox’s fingers are twitching. He takes a step backward, then another, then he leans against his desk, hand sliding to the side. There’s a click—the lights dim. Alpha smirks.

Behind him, the door closes.


	6. Bly, teardrops, G

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **menac-ika asked:** Oh I got another one! Bly with “teardrops”

His face feels wet.

He takes off his helmet and touches his cheek with gloved fingers gingerly. They’re wet.

Why?

“We’ll be ready in ten, sir,” one of the men says. He puts his helmet back on immediately and turns around. He nods sharply to dismiss him. For a moment, he frowns. His men look… _off._ He can’t say what it is but—

Something is _wrong._

He bites his tongue and ignores the sensation. He’s been feeling funky ever since they landed. Must’ve been the rations—he knew that color was suspicious. 

His eyes keep distracting him as they advance. The further they walk into the forest, the more difficult it becomes to see. He keeps blinking, trying to get a clearer sight but his eyes keep filling to the brim. It’s becoming really uncomfortable to keep his helmet on but he’s had worse. It’s only water. He’s had worse. The vegetation morphs into bigger, more colourful plants with butterflies and other insects flying around, completely uncaring of their presence. Bly can’t see anything anymore so he blinks harder and keeps walking.

They arrive at a point where they could easily sit down and rest for a while. He raises a fist and gives his silent order; his lieutenant makes sure the men do as he says. It’s getting worse. He keeps sniffing, face completely drenched in fluids except he doesn’t sweat. He looks around. The weird mushrooms are so big they provide shading. He sees some of the men sit down and take off their helmets. He doesn’t say anything.

His eyes keep crying. He has no idea why. They don’t even burn like they would if it were allergies; his face feels swollen only because he’s been crying for an hour straight. Apart from that, nothing seems weird with his body. He doesn’t understand. Maybe it’s something on this planet?

He looks at his men. They all seem fine. Their stormtrooper armors aren’t very pristine anymore, the white dirtied by mud, but otherwise they look fine. What is wrong with him? Why do his eyes keep crying?

Bly walks a bit farther from them. The men don’t say anything. The plants glow softly. They look beautiful and deadly. He doesn’t know where he’s going, letting his feet lead him where they want. It seems like they know where to go.

He finds himself in a middle of gigantic carnivorous plants shading him from the sun. He can see one moon already but not much else. The mushrooms are thriving here. There’s a patch with some of them a different color—a deep, glowing blue. Bly walks on the brown ones to look at these more closely. He crouches in front of them and gingerly pokes them with a finger. The tears almost blind him. He takes off his helmet to see them more clearly.

Felucia is an odd planet. It makes Bly feel empty even if there’s no reason for that. Perhaps it’s something in the air. Perhaps he shouldn’t touch the glowing mushrooms.

But there’s a feeling—like a warm smile and a welcoming voice, and the blue is so deep and so soothing Bly can’t stop himself from staring at them. Teardrops fall down on the ground, feeding the earth with salt.

Bly cries looking at blue mushrooms on Felucia and he doesn’t know why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very hehEHEHehEHeh at this one because it's technically in the same verse as some of my fics heheheHEHehehe


	7. Obi-Wan/Rex, remembrance, T

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **youbitehard asked:** obi-wan/rex, (platonic is fine too) + remembrance

The minute he hears the name out of Ezra’s mouth, Rex takes the first shuttle available and flies away.

The journey in hyperspace is spent in a swirl of emotions, hope and fear and regret and joy intermingling, a spiral of memories within memories within memories within memories—and at the end a single question.

Why did he never try to find Rex?

He lands on the first spot available, careful to still choose civilization over the dune sea but still favoring a smaller, seedier spaceport over the one that seems best. Tatooine is far from everything else but the Empire has limbs in every corner of the galaxy.

It occurs to Rex that he has no idea where he needs to go.

What would even he say to him? It’s been decades now. There’s nothing else to say, really. Maybe this was a bad idea. He looks around him. Mos Espa really is in the middle of nowhere—but then, the whole planet is. He goes back to the shuttle with a sigh.

He can’t take off. The shuttle refuses. He sighs heavily and tries to find what’s wrong. This is probably why the shuttle was available in the first place. He can’t find what’s wrong. He needs to find a mechanic.

“If you can get me what’s on the list, it’ll be cheaper,” the girl says. Rex nods silently and accepts his new task. “Tosche station is where you’ll find these. Lots of stuff there.”

He thinks this is some sort of con, that maybe he’s meant to go there so they can keep his shuttle and maybe throw his body somewhere in the desert. But it’s not like he has much of a choice—so he still goes. There are a lot of kids there, some not much older than Ezra.

“What are you doing here, stranger?” one of them asks. She’s wearing rags over her lekku to protect them from the sun. “We don’t see a lot of people like you around here.”

He frowns then remembers she can’t see his face under the helmet. He tilts his head. “What do you mean?”

She simply shrugs, waiting for his answer. It’s not like he has much to lose anyway.

“I’m looking for a friend,” he says. “An old one I haven’t seen in a long time.”

“What’s their name?” she asks immediately. He can see the kids around her who pretend not to listen subtly perk up.

Rex swallows. “Kenobi,” he mutters. His throat tightens. It’s been so long since he said it out loud he almost forgot how it sounded like in his mouth. He forgot how much he liked it.

“Kenobi?” one of the kids says, eyes squinting when he tries to look at Rex. “Do you mean like Ben Kenobi?”

Rex blinks. It couldn’t—

“He’s right there,” the kid exclaims, pointing at a house nearby. “You’re lucky; he doesn’t go out oft—”

Rex sees the hooded figure coming out of the house and he knows. He inhales sharply, chest tightening all of a sudden, and his fists clench. The figure jerks to a halt and stills. Rex’s feet move on their own—he starts walking slowly, then the more steps he takes the faster he walks. Before he can even comprehend what’s happening, he’s running.

He stops abruptly. The figure hasn’t moved. The hood is still hiding their face.

Rex takes off his helmet and lets it drop on the ground.

“Obi-Wan,” he calls softly because what does he have to lose anymore? Nothing. 

The figure moves, their head rising slightly. Rex tries to smile. His heart hurts—and not like it does from time to time these last years. It’s filled with joy and relief and hope—if he’s here, alive, maybe that means Rex’s General is as well. Maybe he can have them both back; maybe he can look at Obi-Wan and tell him he took care of their Padawan, that he wasn’t there for Anakin but he was there for her. 

He takes off his hood and Rex inhales sharply. It’s him—it’s _him._ He takes a step forward then stops. What is he supposed to say? What is he supposed to do? Maybe he doesn’t recognize him anymore. Rex has changed, a whole lot—now he just looks like an old clone, with nothing distinctive or that could hint he is _himself._

Obi-Wan smiles. “Hello, Rex,” he says and his eyes soften.

Rex doesn’t think; he closes the distance between them and takes him in his arms silently, eyes closing on their own. When he feels uncertain arms embracing him he tightens his hold. He doesn’t know how long they stay like this.

When Obi-Wan pulls away to look at him, Rex stays silent. “You look well,” his Jedi whispers, eliciting a wet laugh.

“I got old, you mean,” he replies. Obi-Wan chuckles quietly.

“So did I.” He begins frowning. “I—”

Rex pulls him against him and touches his forehead with his own.

“Not yet,” he mutters. “Just… give me this. Just for now.” He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.

Obi-Wan stays silent. When Rex opens his eyes, he sees him smile.


	8. Alpha & Fordo, T

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **anonymous asked:** Alpha and Fordo?

77 never talks. They all know why—but it seems 17 is the only one who isn’t bothered by that. 

He’s looking out the window while 77 is disassembling his blaster. They’re on Level 81. Mostly residential, mostly poor, mostly cantina and casino workers, someone outside no matter what time it is since they’re all used to odd hours. No spice dealings around these parts but mostly because anyone here can get supplies at their workplace. 

This is about recon before anything else. Or at least that’s what the officers said. This is about wagering whether they can still work together well or not. This is about defining the lines clearly so that they know where their place is. This is about making them both understand the galaxy isn’t a sim for them to wreck whenever they feel like it.

“You keep destroying that thing and adding unnecessary stuff. It’s like you’re trying to overcompensate for your own weaknesses,” 17 mutters with a huff, eyes still on the outside. 

There’s a tiny beetle walking on the windowsill, smaller than his thumb. He takes it between two fingers; its little limbs shake energetically, trying to find ground when there is none to find. He puts it in his mouth and bites. Crunch, crunch, then a bitter, revulsing taste kisses his tongue. Definitely different from veg-meat rations but not as interesting as the monkey-lizard meat bite he took from the plate of their last target after killing her. He hopes the beetle won’t make him throw up like the monkey-lizard did. 

77 doesn’t reply. Unsurprising. 17 sniffs, refusing to look at him. If he keeps his eyes away from his hands, he stops him from speaking. They both know it. And they both know he does it on purpose. It used to be more difficult between them. 

17 has no patience for anyone. He had to with trainers otherwise they sent him in a biobed and expected him to stay silent. He had to with Fett because he knew the bastard wouldn’t hesitate to wipe him if he thought he was deviating too much from his baseline. He was just waiting for an opportunity in the end. So 17 has no patience for anyone and even less for clones. 77 requires patience. Which means they were bound to hate each other. 

At age 4, 77 stopped talking to anyone who wasn’t training him. Stayed silent even with the Kaminoans. They put him through an array of exams and tests, just to check. There’s nothing wrong with him. At least nothing that warrants a wipe or a mod. He’s just silent because he wants everyone else to forget what’s wrong with him. It doesn’t work of course because they all heard his voice already and they all know it’s not Fett’s. 77 has a voice that he shouldn’t have and there’s nothing he can do about it because it doesn’t undermine his performances. So he stopped talking if it wasn’t absolutely necessary. He signs. Everyone knows what he signs. If you want a conversation with him you need to look at his hands. 17 has decided he will not look at his hands if he doesn’t have to.

77’s fingers come to touch his hair and pull harshly, almost throwing him off his seat; 17 swats his hand away and scowls when he sees the bastard’s shoulders shake in that silent laugh of his. “Get karked,” he spits. He keeps the scowl to be certain the corners of his mouth don’t tilt up. 

77’s attention is already elsewhere—he taps his fingers on the window and points at someone down on the street. Devaronian, young adult, thick and powerful build, not combat trained. No hair, nondescript clothes. A service worker. “No,” 17 replies. He looks around. Six meters behind. “That one.” Zeltron, young adult, slim but powerful build, not combat trained. Purple hair, alluring clothes. A dancer. He already knows they’re not 77’s type. He’s just karking with him, really, but he knows it’ll work so he acts like he’s serious. And just to be certain, he adds, “that one’s good for you, tubie.”

77 strikes quickly. He always does. With him, if you blink you’re done. 17 licks his palm and slaps him in the face, wiping his hand on his nose; 77 backs away and throws a wipe full of blaster oil at him.  _ Bastard, _ he signs, putting his face in his shirt. The shirt is full of oil too. When he comes out and stares at 17 with a scowl, his face looks dirtied with grime and like he just decided to sleep in the dumpster facing their building. 

“Captain Fordo can’t even clean himself on his own, like a tubie,” 17 says, cackling. 77 scowls, puts his chair back up but doesn’t sit down; he tries to pull 17’s hair again so 17 takes his hand and pulls him closer to slap him again. The problem is he ends up with the bastard throwing himself at him trying to make them fall down on the floor but his reflexes are too good for that—so now 77 is sitting on his lap and wiping his dirty shirt all over him. 

“Get karked,” he snarls, trying to throw him off him but it’s over already. He’s done and he knows. 

After a moment, they calm down. 77 pulls the table closer with his foot and focuses on his blaster, glancing at the window from time to time. 17 resigns himself to having that heavy bastard sitting on his lap and subtly elbowing him at every occasion, staring outside like this is going to make time go faster. 

77 taps on the window again. Gungan, adult, lanky and weak build, not combat trained. Long ears, expensive clothes. A client. 17 looks at him in question.

“The Chancellor’s lover,” 77 mutters. 17 looks back again. Well. They do look like the Gungan representative.

“Lucky Sheev,” he replies with a theatrical sigh, snorting when he sees 77’s shoulders shaking.


End file.
